


Unchained

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: The Prisoner (1967)
Genre: Conversations, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Identity Issues, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Series, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: "His mind has found a way to protect him. No. 6 bore the weight of the ordeal, but he's not No. 6. He's a free man."Two years after escaping the Village, the man who was once a prisoner receives a visit from a woman who was once his only friend, and begins to come to terms with what happened in the Village.





	Unchained

**Author's Note:**

> First off: If this feels like two disparate concepts thrown into one, that's because it is. This was supposed to be a simpler, shorter story, but the characters were unruly and refused to work with me (it's as good an excuse as any). If anything about it feels disjointed, I apologize.
> 
> I'd like to note that this story was influenced by a couple works in this archive, also for The Prisoner. Plenty of my fics in general are influenced by works in the same fandom, but since this one has so few fics I figured I'd better admit it outright in case the influence is obvious.
> 
> Also, in order to write this story I had to accept the finale "Fall Out" at face value, but were it not for this story idea I otherwise wouldn't take it so literally.

       The doorbell’s ring resounds across the house, startling him as if it were the sound of gunfire. He breathes heavily and listens, senses on full alert, wondering why the door didn’t automatically open for his unexpected guest.

       _Because you’ve had the door replaced._

 _…_ Of course, of course. He settles back down, though tension remains in his shoulders and neck. The butler will answer the door…

        _But there’s no butler._

The thought wanders across his mind like a drunk man stumbling home from a pub. As soon as it connects vaguely to his memory banks, he pushes himself up from his seat. Before answering the door, he’ll have to get a good look at his guest. So few visitors drop in these days that he can’t afford to take any chances.

       From the upstairs window, he separates the blinds and peers from behind the curtains, gazing down at his doorstep. His only true regret in buying this house is that there’s no angle from which the front porch is perfectly visible… but it’s better than not being able to see the front porch at all. On his doorstep, he spies the figure of a young woman, standing with her arms crossed over her chest. Her medium-length brown hair falls in waves over her shoulders. She’s built slenderly, and clad in a coat so long it takes him a moment to realize she’s wearing tights and not slacks. Overall, she cuts a harmless figure.

        He doesn’t trust her for a second.

       _Very clever._ Send a vulnerable young woman to his doorstep, and of _course_ he’ll be expected to take her in. No passing stranger would happen upon his house by accident, much less ring the doorbell. This lady must have sought him out intentionally, which makes him keen to avoid her.

       Still, he watches as she uncrosses her arms and looks about her, as if checking to make sure this is the right destination. He can’t read her expression, but her body language is hesitant, possibly confused. She doesn’t know he’s watching her- there’s no need for her to act. Or _is_ there? Had her eyes caught the faint movement from the upstairs bedroom, the parting of the blinds by an inch?

       Almost immediately, he dismisses the thought. _You know better than that._ Her vantage point from the front porch is even worse than his from the bedroom. He’s checked it too many times to suspect.

       For a few more seconds, he waits in the vain hope that she might give up. But she remains in place, leaving him with no other choice but to answer her call.

       Lightly he treads down the stairs and through the front hall, rolling his feet forward to minimize the sound. He reaches the front door and cracks it open, just enough for the person outside to see his eyes.

        An angular face stares back at him- long lashes, creamy skin. Wide eyes- gray with a hint of green. A muted jolt goes through him, his heart thumping once before resuming its regular pace. It can’t be- but he _recognizes_ her-

       She stares at him for a good several seconds before her lips finally part. “It really _is_ you.”

       The sound of her voice hammers the recognition home, and he welcomes it while simultaneously recoiling.

        “Who are you?” He can’t count how many times in his life he’s posed that question. It’s almost become a standard greeting.

       “You don’t remember me?” She reaches out, as if to touch him, but at the last second thinks better of it and pulls back. Perhaps she saw him flinch, though he hopes she didn’t.

       He’s not sure how to answer her. He _recognizes_ her, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let himself _remember._

       “Who _are_ you?” he repeats, more urgently, frustration beginning to brew. He won’t say the name he thinks belongs to her. He’ll only believe it when he sees the shape form on her lips.

       She hugs her coat tightly, although it’s buttoned up and there’s no breeze. “Alison, as you knew me. Or No. 24, as I was to everyone else.”

        _Alison._ The memories stir in the back of his brain, emerging unasked. The years- _two years, has it really only been TWO YEARS-_ have dulled their impact to the point where they no longer feel like they belong to him. They’re just images he saw once, projected on a screen. He’s _got_ his memories, but he doesn’t _own_ them anymore.

       Alison, greeting him in the morning as he strolls along the way. Alison, sitting in his dwelling with her eyes shut in concentration, reading the pictures that formed in his head. If the images had stopped there, he’d almost be able to make himself believe that the rest of it- _all of it-_ never happened.

       But following those are images of Alison with her gaze averted, staring at the ground as she monotonously calls out the wrong pictures. Alison turning her back on him. Alison’s betrayal.

       The last time they’d spoken, she’d told him in so many words that she had no desire to do it again. All the same, he’d never entirely washed the bad taste from his mouth. _Their offer was certainly strong enough for you to do it the first time._ She hadn’t stuck around long enough to disprove his doubts.

        _Alison._ That very same woman now stands on his doorstep. He has half a mind to reach out, to see if his hand will move through her like a beam of sunlight. But there’s _depth_ to this vision. Her fingers tremble as they clutch at her coat, and a few strands of hair are out of place. She’s solidly, vividly real.

      _Too solid. Too vivid_. So real it almost frightens him.

       He pushes the door open another fraction, so that she can see all of him, but none of the house’s interior. “What are you doing here?”

       “Quite honestly, I’ve no idea.” She looks as if she wants to laugh, but doesn’t know how. “It took me months to track you down… I second-guessed myself every step of the way here. If you’ve intended this as a hiding-place, you’ve certainly succeeded.

        “I- I know how highly you must value your privacy, but I just couldn’t put you from my mind.” Her hands slowly fall to her sides, as if the reality of the situation is finally descending on her. She swallows, but maintains her gaze. “I guess… I thought you could bring me hope.”

       A thousand questions spring to his mind. _Just how did you find me?_ His new identity shouldn’t be available for an ordinary civilian to trace. But then again, who’s to say Alison is an ordinary civilian? Her stint as a turncoat among his former captors may have opened her to an entire world of possibilities. And there’s no telling what kind of life she led _before-_

 _WHY did you find me?_ Her excuse is so flimsy he can poke holes in it. But there’s a strange air of _legitimacy_ about her, despite the sense her words lack. His impeccable inner radar registers not even one blip. Perhaps he’s drawing on the images of their brief companionship, synthesizing a closeness that isn’t there in order to fool himself. But whether he’s justified in believing her, he finds himself inclined to listen.

       Then the word _hope_ strikes him with its full force, and he turns his utmost attention onto it.

       “ _Hope?_ What makes you think that someone like _me_ could bring you hope?”

       “Well, not to me exactly.” Alison’s voice is quiet as she stands her ground. “To me, and… to others. It’s a bit difficult to explain. If you’ll let me in, I can tell you more about it.”

        He stiffens. It takes all his willpower not to slam the door in Alison’s face. _She thinks she can negotiate a deal with me?_ When he knows full well that she’s going to go back on her word the instant she sets foot inside…

        Her eyes grow wide in alarm, apparently picking up on his body’s cues. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. We can talk wherever you feel comfortable. That’s all I want to do.”

       _Talk._ Slowly, his fingers relax against the doorknob. _Talk, talk._

 _Who goes to such great lengths just to TALK to someone?_ Let alone someone they haven’t seen in years- _let alone_ someone they sold out as an enemy. If she’s trying to deceive him, she’s certainly chosen a convoluted method.

       But his shrewd, roaming gaze detects no weapons on her. And if her story rings true, he’s got to invite her in. The outside world shifts too constantly and too quickly, even in remote outposts like this one. The only environment he can control is one within four walls.

       Slowly, he creaks the door open. “Come inside, then. But just to talk.”

      Alison nods once, tightly, before scurrying in, her eyes cast to the ground.

*

       Faded light filters into the sitting room through the windows, which provide an excellent view of his front walkway. As soon as he and Alison had settled down for a terse, tense tea-time, he’d kept one eye on said view and the other on her. She’d settled in fairly quickly, removing her coat to reveal a splendid white dress with red cherries printed on it. Better than the tacky candy-stripes he last saw her wearing _._ Her sharp, delicate gestures remind him very much of a caged bird. She maintains a faltering, one-sided chat in between sips of tea, before downing the dregs and replacing her cup in its saucer. His cup remains on the coffee table, untouched. Shame to waste it, but right now he’d prefer something stronger.

        The ticking of the grandfather clock in the next room fills his ears, each second a deafening roar. _Almost like-_ Hurriedly he banishes the thought before the images of glistening white spheres can fill his head, and turns his attention onto his unlikely guest.

       “What’s it all about?”

       Alison’s eyes rise from her hands, clasped in her lap, to his face. “What?”

      The side of his mouth twitches in what once might have been a smile. “What’s it all about? You said that you’d tell me why you’re here if I let you in. Now you’re in. Tell me.”

       Reflexively, Alison reaches for her teacup, before appearing to remember that her tea is gone. Her hands return to her lap.

        “I came here on behalf of a certain group,” she begins, hesitant. “It’s not what you’re thinking of. I was already considering seeking you out, and they gave me the push I needed. I’m not sure why I thought of it initially. Morbid curiosity, I suppose.”

       He studies her intently, trying to detect the hint of a performance in her words and expression. It’s become second nature to analyze every interaction in which he partakes, to read and interpret hidden meanings in movement and word choice. Even as he does so, though, a small part of him cries out in exhaustion. Will he _ever_ be free to drop his guard?

       But he doesn’t need to ask, because the answer will always be a stone-cold negative. So he resigns himself to hyper-alertness.

       “I’d ask if you escaped, but even I know better.” He tries to orient his words around past events, without overtly touching on them. “Did they escort you out with a parade of honors, or were you subjected to the same… procedure as I was?”

        Even speaking of this _procedure_ is distinctly uncomfortable, stirring up a flurry of images that he would rather set aside. The throne. The judge and the faceless members of the jury. The glowing green eye in the corner that presided over it all.

       And, as a side-effect of hindsight, the guilt.

        For months, he’d sought an escape route. He’d sent messages, built rafts, attempted to find a single comrade through incessant questioning. In return, they had drugged him, spied on him, violated his privacy and his human rights countless times over, and dangled the promise of freedom before his eyes, only to snatch it back at the very last second. But in the end, they’d handed it to him on a silver platter… and he had accepted. With a smile and no second thoughts, he had _accepted._ He’d been fully prepared to leave on their terms, not his own. And that would have been the sourest victory of all.

        Alison’s brow furrows. “I don’t think so. There was no procedure, or anything like that.”

       “So I take it you didn’t meet _himself?”_

“Who?”

       _“You_ know who.” He picks up his teacup and taps it knowingly, another hard almost-smile appearing on his face. “The man behind the man. The great one. The lord of lords. No. 1.” _You’d know him if you saw him._ Or would she…?

        He can’t help but feel a slight smidgen of disappointment when Alison shakes her head. “No, I only saw No. 2. I don’t remember anything after he called me to the Green Dome. I woke up back in my old home, only this time it _was_ my old home.”

        At last he raises his cup to his lips, angling his eyebrows upward. The words _No. 2_ and _Green Dome_ send unpleasant pangs through him, but strike him as alien at the same time. _Sticks and stones may break my bones…_ but words have _never_ hurt him. He won’t allow these ones to have power over him.

       “I’m surprised you escaped with your life.” Even though Alison had played her part flawlessly, surely no self-respecting No. 2 had missed her parting words by the helicopter. _If I had a second chance… I wouldn’t do it again._

       Again Alison looks as though she wants to laugh. “You know that wasn’t their style.”

        _Theirs or ours?_ He refrains from asking. Even if Alison knows the answer, he’s not sure he could find any meaning in it.

       “So they released their iron-clad grip, and turned you loose upon a cold, uncaring world.” _A world which might have already forgotten you._ He waits, but Alison doesn’t challenge the statement.

        “You never did tell me what you were there for.”

       Her eyes flash instantly. “That’s private. Besides, can’t you guess?” Her words are dragged out of her mouth, half defiant and half ashamed. “You’re not the only one with whom I’ve built a… rapport.”

       _A rapport…_ Again the static images, tumbling through his mind. The cards. The questioning. Alison’s insistence that all these little coincidences must _mean_ something. In turn, he was eager to restrain her assumptions, because he didn’t want to lead her on. In her eyes, _sympatico_ was likely to translate as _soulmate,_ and though he enjoyed spending time with her he hadn’t wanted her to grow too attached. (Nor him to her, whispered a muffled part of his brain.)

        “You read the wrong person’s mind,” he hazards a guess. “And suddenly you knew too much.” _Everyone knows too much._

“I _told_ you,” Alison insists. “That’s _private.”_ A dark shade seems to have fallen across her eyes. She folds her arms, looking ready to pout. The expression is so childish that a mild flicker of amusement stirs in him, before vanishing into smoke.

       “Besides,” Alison continues, “it’s not really mind-reading. You know that. It’s… _feelings,_ mostly. Senses. Seeing something that isn’t there. Or _knowing_ something without really learning it. That’s how I tracked you down, anyway.” She pauses, as if waiting for a remark, but his lips remain sealed. Silently he dares her to go ahead.

       “I just went with what my instinct told me was right,” Alison explains. “A gut feeling, I’d call it. As soon as I found your name and address I thought, ‘That’s the one.’ And here I am.” She settles back in her seat, her matter-of-factness barely disguising her triumphant pride. “Otherwise, I’d have never known what became of you. I figured you went into seclusion, but… when I knew you, you never struck me as a craftsman. I mean no offense in saying so, of course. Only that I never thought you’d be content to settle down as one.”

        He angles his head and raises his eyebrows. “Nor did I.” Not until he’d found himself adrift, an aimless buoy upon the threatening wave of time. _What could I have done?_ Over the years he’d accumulated countless skills, and he certainly had the intelligence for a higher position. But after his… ordeal, he no longer felt comfortable applying said skills to what fields were available. Discounting his work in espionage left little to go on. Mathematics had become too personal, each figure looming before him like a menacing predator. Eventually he’d boiled his options down to the basic strengths he’d developed before joining the organization, and ended up in woodworking and furniture restoration. It’s a slow-paced job, one that requires little interaction and offers few surprises. At this point, it suits him just fine.

       He thinks he would be able to handle mathematics now, if the decision were made today. How silly it had been, to turn down a possible future on the basis of events long since passed. What happened to him- or what he thinks happened to him- is insignificant.

       _Two whole years…_

Curiosity grips him suddenly as he considers the extent of what Alison can glean from his mind. Obviously her _gut feeling_ was wrong about his career choice, but other things- such as his current location- are as clear as the view from his sitting room. The thought chills him more than he expected. After the extensive effort he’s taken to conceal himself, how can one person so thoroughly interrupt his privacy?

       “What’s this about a certain group?” he questions, taking the reins of the conversation and steering it down the path of greatest intrigue. “Who sent you here, if it wasn’t-“

       “I sent myself here,” Alison breaks in, rescuing him from his own words. “It was my idea, but I tracked you down because I believed your presence might make a difference to a group that I’ve helped form.” She hesitates, her eyes consulting the ceiling as if it’s a dictionary, before forging ahead. “After the- after I left, months after I left, I ran into someone. _Several_ someones, actually. People who knew what I meant when I mentioned that I’d been away, with stories to tell that were nearly identical to my own.”

       She takes a deep breath, collecting herself. “We… banded together, I guess you could say. And that somehow encouraged others to… come out of the woodwork. People came to us because the world had turned its back on their outrageous claims, and we were the only ones who believed them. They’d _been_ there, you see. Just as we had. They’d thought it was some sort of nightmare, or delusion. We were able to convince them it wasn’t. We were _proof_ to them. Proof that such a place really had existed.”

       _“Had_ existed?” he murmurs.

       Alison nods, staring deeply into his eyes. “Yes. Through the stories, I came to realize that our prison- the Village- was no more. All its captives had been encouraged to flee following some great threat. Accounts vary on the details. All we know for sure is that it’s gone. And that we’re never returning.”

       Something inside him goes cold at the mention of the Village. As if a sacrament has been broken in referencing it outright. It’s not the cold he’s learned to live with, either. This is less like the dullness of a blood-starved limb falling asleep, and more like he’s been surrendered to the Arctic without a protective jacket.

        _How can you be so sure…_

        “These people _struggled_ to reintegrate into society,” Alison continues. “Our goal- my goal- has been to help them, to remind themselves of who they were, and who they now are. We’re not prisoners anymore. We are _survivors.”_

       Slowly he lets the entire tale sink in, trying to wrap his mind around the assault of new information while juxtaposing it with his past knowledge. Then he cuts to the chase.

       “What is it you need _me_ for?”

       Her hands unclasp and spread outward as she gestures. “Why, because you’re the one who started it, of course. Or so they tell me. Almost everyone who escaped remembers you, largely because you stuck around for so long. Even I was impressed, when I was- called upon to serve the authority. They tried _everything,_ but your strength- your _determination_ was never eroded.”

       He can’t help but shake his head. Alison is trying to impose his existence onto a verbal canvas, but the portrait doesn’t resemble him at all. “That was _years_ ago.” _That was a number, not me._ “My… identity should be of no consequence to these people.”

        “Don’t you see?” Alison exclaims, leaning forward. “Your presence _meant_ something in the Village. Your bravery, your steadfastness, your defiance… You were an _inspiration._ I believe that if you come to meet our group, you will still be regarded as such.”

       Upon the completion of Alison’s statement, his breath hitches in his throat. A second later, a strange feeling takes charge of him. It takes him a moment to realize it’s the heated onset of anger.

       “An _inspiration,_ you say? If that’s true… _why_ did they never _tell me AT THE TIME?!”_

He doesn’t realize until the words are out of his mouth that he’s leaned in, inches away from Alison’s face. She shrinks into her chair, her eyes wide. His shout resounds across the room, a deafening break from the static of their polite conversation. He raises his voice so rarely these days that he almost shrinks back himself, though the fire that’s ignited in his gut is a welcome change from the stupefying numbness that consumes him daily. Whether this feeling will last for hours or days, he’s uncertain, but at least it’s _something_.

“It was impossible to tell you,” Alison breathes. The color seeps slowly back to her face. He feels he should regret having frightened her so badly, but _should_ doesn’t mean that he does. “There were eyes _everywhere._ The Village didn’t permit us to speak freely….”

       “What do you _expect_ from me?” he interrupts, speaking over Alison’s hasty attempts to appease him. One more mention of the Village, and he swears something inside him will snap. “Did you think I would fall into your arms like an inconsolable child? Thank you for rescuing me from my unbearable solitude? Bare my soul to this- _support group_ you’ve amassed? _It’s over!_ I am not, nor will I ever be, the _idol_ or paragon you think I am. Go worship your num- number-“ The word _six_ is on his tongue, but his brain won’t let him force it out, so he omits it from his statement. “What _he_ did has nothing to do with _me.”_

He can see that Alison is taken aback, but fortunately she doesn’t nag him to explain himself. He’s not sure he could, anyway, at least not to her satisfaction. His psyche might be fractured, bent beyond self-recognition. His ordeal might have dealt him severe, irreparable damage. But if that’s the case, he can’t complain, because so far he’s suffered no adverse effects. His mind has found a way to protect him. No. 6 bore the weight of the ordeal, but he’s not No. 6. He’s a free man.

       After a moment of silence, Alison mutters, “All right.” Her eyes are cold as she stands up, but he can tell from the shape of her mouth and crease of her forehead that she’s not without sympathy. Disgust fills him as he rises alongside her. _Why should she feel sorry for me?_

But apathy quickly devours such thoughts. His anger has fizzled out, leaving nothing behind. Once more he’s retreating into the vacuum which has sustained him for two years.

        “I suppose I should have expected nothing less,” Alison sighs. “Thank you for the tea. I’m terribly sorry for intruding.”

       His hand twitches, and he has to restrain himself from saluting her. Instead he nods, and she makes her way to the sitting room’s entrance.

       Then she turns around.

       “Oh, I almost forgot. Before I go, I was wondering if I might ask you a question.”

       He has no reason to freeze at her suggestion, but he does anyway. _Why did you resign?_

 _NO,_ he wants to shout at her. But an old adage springs into his head, deflating his unformed arguments.

      _Questions are a burden to others, and answers a prison for oneself._

No matter how unsavory the question might be, he has no intention of suppressing Alison.

       “What is it?”

       Alison gently bites her lower lip. She smooths down her dress, running her hands across each invisible wrinkle. “You’ve known my name for… all this time… and I never knew yours.”

       His muscles relax. “That’s because you offered yours, unprompted.” _Also that wasn’t a question._ “Of what importance is it to you? You managed to find me quite well without it.”

       “Not _that_ name,” Alison scoffs. “I mean your real name. The one you used before you went into hiding- before the Village- before _everything.”_

He has to gather himself before he speaks again. Her pursuit for knowledge has drained him. Every limb is bound by an intolerable heaviness. “Why do you care?”

       Alison gains the courage to look him in the eye. She steps forward, but comes no closer, mindful of an imaginary line drawn between them.

       “I care because names have meaning. You know, during our… time together, I never thought of you as No. 6. And I didn’t think less of you for keeping your name to yourself, because that meant you still valued it. You were still a person, and not a hollow shell like those poor souls in the hospital, or at the old folk’s home.” Her eyes shine, her voice gradually dropping to a soft murmur, and he finds that he’s drifting closer to hear her better. “You’ve _always_ been a person. You’ve always known who you are.”

        _A person._

_“I am not a number. I am a person.”_

The revelation comes to him all at once, like the shattering of a glass mosaic. Perhaps in the Village, names were not as profane as he had thought. A fully converted Villager could walk around shouting his name at the top of his voice, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. True loyalty would have erased all meaning and all attachment.

       Perhaps he does fit the description of Alison’s invented _inspiration_. The passing years, and the toll that Village life had taken on him, have distorted his self-identity. Looking back on his ordeal is like peering into a warped mirror at a carnival funhouse. He still knows who he is, but he’s grown so disconnected from who he _was. Prisoner No. 6-_ a meaningless moniker.

       In the Village, his identity had been a rock on which he could always rely. No matter how thorough his captors’ files, they’d never been able to see through his eyes. They could only read him from the outside in.

      Somewhere down the road, he’s lost sight of his very foundation. It had been something of a necessity upon escaping, because he wanted to move forward without looking back over his shoulder. But refusing to face the reality of his ordeal could have its consequences.

       That doesn’t mean he’s up for attending Alison’s support group, or meeting any other “survivors,” or even returning as an active member of society. Hosting Alison has been taxing enough. His grip on his identity may have weakened, but he does know that he’s never been one to accept any form of therapy.

       Yet he senses that if he can’t reconcile his past with his present, his mental state will never improve. He’s not ready to take any further steps, but perhaps Alison’s arrival is a good starting point. Perhaps repairing their friendship can serve as the balm he needs.

        “If you focus, I think I can sense it,” Alison says gently, drawing him back from his musings. “Your name. Or the first letter, anyway…”

        He closes his eyes briefly, summoning up the name-  _his_ name, the one handed to him at birth. Underneath all the conflicted layers, it's still at his very core.

       "Are you sure?"

       "I... I think so..."

       He isn’t sure he wants to hear Alison guess, so he murmurs, “Can you write it down?” She nods, and he hastens to fetch a pencil and paper. Alison presses the provided notepad onto the nearby cabinet, where he keeps his record collection, and scribbles down a letter. She holds it over her face, and he summons a weary, exhausted smile. _An upside-down 6._

        “You’re right.” _Out of the last four runs you got 73 out of 100… You’re gifted._

        Her voice is as soft as the touch of a feather. “What is your name?’

       He tells her before he can convince himself not to answer. The moment he’s said it, he feels the immense glacier inside him begin to thaw.

       To willingly give information- to allow oneself to be _known-_ is nothing more than an invitation for injury. During his ordeal- back in _the_ _Village-_ he’d built walls to protect his few secrets, hoarding them like a stash of illicit material. So tightly he’d clung to even the merest scrap of personal knowledge… He almost can’t breathe, waiting for a reaction. But when Alison smiles, a poignant gleam in her eye, he knows he’s told the right person.

        “Alison.” He holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

       She shakes his hand and beams brighter, responding in kind.

**Author's Note:**

> As a matter of fact, I do have a headcanon name for No. 6 (slightly hinted at here), but I felt that anything I came up with would seem anticlimactic.
> 
> Alison's friendship with No. 6 is, to be honest, one of my favorite things in the entire series (and half the reason why "The Schizoid Man" is my favorite episode). It felt natural to have them meet again.


End file.
